Urmi ChakravortyWhen Fire Met Water
Stop acting coy now, and come right back here!
Don’t you dare raise your voice…stop testing my patience!
Did you say no? Thwack, thwack!! Try saying that again!
Ambika sat up with a start, beads of sweat lining her glabella. Picking up the covered copper glass, she glugged in some water. This had become a recurrent feature, of late. Sleep evaded her. She feared her thumping heartbeat would awaken the four other women, sleeping peacefully in different corners of the room.
Ambika could not figure the time. She walked across to the window, her dark almond eyes scanning the onyx sky above. Pushing back a few sneaky tendrils of hair from her dusky, oval face, she concluded it was well past midnight. Not that it mattered, really. Time had nothing to do with the cycle of events that unfolded with tedious uniformity in the lives of the twenty-odd residents of Amrit Kunj, a widow hostel in Varanasi. Smoothening the dishevelled pallu of her stark white saree, she lay down again, waiting for daybreak.
*******
A red brick two-storey tenement, Amrit Kunj housed five rooms and a large courtyard at the back. An additional room, the largest and airiest one, functioned as the bed chamber of the owner. The green wooden doors and shuttered windows had certainly seen better days. Though time had autographed every nook and corner of the structure, the hostel’s prized location near the hallowed Assi Ghat had amped up its popularity and rentals.
As a place of residence, however, Amrit Kunj quite belied the essence of its name. Owned by the formidable Sumitra Devi, its ambience was neither honeyed nor peaceful. Sumitra had suffered a severely abusive marriage in Kanpur. Fortunately, her husband expired quite early on. The grapevine buzz was that the childless Sumitra had a hand in it. Her wealthy father smuggled her out to his Varanasi house, and shortly afterwards, Amrita Kunj was born.
A common thread that bound the residents here was that they had all lost their husbands very young. Blamed savagely for this tragedy by their kin on both sides, the bereaved women were promptly packed off to Varanasi to fend for themselves. Condemned to a life of austerity and deprivation, they now hoped to court death at the feet of Lord Shiva, and attain moksh or ‘freedom’ from the cycle of birth and death.
Procuring tenancy at Amrit Kunj was, in itself, a herculean achievement. More so, if the widow came in without enough resources or a referral. Ambika had neither. She had arrived at Amrit Kunj one rainy evening, eight months ago, with a single jute bag and minimal funds. For once, Sumitra Devi seemed lost for words. Rather, expletives. Ambika’s frazzled appearance well complemented her tattered bag, bursting at the seams. It looked like she had stuffed all possible essentials into her bag and left in a hurry. Sumitra closely scrutinised the young girl, a flurry of thoughts crisscrossing her shrewd, business-like mind.
Doesn’t look more than eighteen, but seems to carry the burden of a hundred years!
Has the furtive eyes of a deer, trying to escape its predator.
Such a charming face set in a lithe figure…and look at those dark, dense tresses! Wonder how her folks let her travel all alone?! I wouldn’t, if I had a daughter…
Sumitra Devi forced herself out of her musings and focused on the situation at hand. She asked the girl a few perfunctory questions, none of which fetched a convincing answer. Any other situation would have prompted Sumitra to unleash her acerbic tongue and hurl the choicest abuses at the naïve woman who had the gall to approach her empty-handed. But today, things were different. Beneath the downcast eyes, Sumitra could sense a tempest brewing…a spring of molten lava waiting to explode.
The new arrival is a veritable red flag, common sense told Sumitra.
Turning her away may well be the biggest mistake of my life, her heart cautioned.
Finally, after an intense internal debate, Sumitra Devi assented, but not before she had spewed a long list of instructions and restrictions. Ambika was, then, escorted to her room upstairs, which she would share with four other inmates.
From the very beginning, Ambika maintained a studied distance from everybody. If the other residents engaged in friendly banter, Ambika kept examining the lines on her palm. When subjects like marriage and relationships were dissected and debated, Ambika chose to focus on the newspaper headlines. While one did hear of stray conflicts among the inmates (which somehow got resolved organically), Ambika always steered clear of them. With some effort, she landed a cook’s job in a budget hotel in the town. The work was labour-intensive, the salary meagre, but it helped her pay off the monthly rent and keep aside some paltry savings for a rainy day.
“What made you take up work in that eatery, dear?” Binita, one of the oldest residents, had once cornered Ambika. “Don’t you feel uncomfortable? You could have joined us in our temple service – cleaning the premises or singing bhajans. You could also be a part of the workforce here in Amrit Kunj – sweeping, scrubbing and washing. The pay is probably less, but isn’t it better than working in the midst of those lusting, leering men?” The barbs lacing Binita’s voice were unmistakable. “Let me know if anyone misbehaves…I’ll have him sorted,” she concluded rather pompously.
However, Binita was not prepared for the murderous look Ambika gave her. In a low, unruffled voice she replied, “Thank you, Chachi. But no one dares get close to me. I have my ways of warding them off.”
Word of this little tete- a-tete spread like wildfire. Thereafter, the ladies knew better than to needle her. For which Ambika was eternally grateful. Sumitra watched from afar. Something within her stirred. She suddenly felt protective around her new tenant – an emotion she had long kept buried in the innermost recesses of her soul.
****
The sun starts descending at the end of a particularly long and heavy day for you. A large group of tourists had arrived at the hotel without prior intimation. Prepping, cooking, and cleaning up have left you weary. Your arms ache as you navigate the narrow paan-stained alleys, walk past the temples and houses, the markets and the riverfront, till you reach Assi Ghat. Avoiding the crowds, you find yourself a secluded spot and sit down on the wide cemented steps. You stare at the vast volume of holy water flowing past in an unchanging, natural rhythm. The tangerine, gold and fuchsia mosaic of the twilight sky suffuses your face with a warm glow. For some reason, you feel restless today. Your mind meanders along the rugged trail of memories…when and where did it all begin?
Two years ago, you were just another candidate at the makeshift annual ‘bride market’ of your village, 100 kilometres away from Indore — indignant, apprehensive, awaiting your turn to be picked up by someone. Anyone who could shell out the moolah. Your debt-ridden father had either sold off or mortgaged every single asset he possessed – his modest agricultural holding, his dwelling, his bicycle, and even his late wife’s residual jewellery. Pushed against the wall, he had no option but to ‘rent out’ his daughter under the Dadhicha Pratha, a common practice in rural Madhya Pradesh. You were a young virgin, adequately pretty (the younger the better, they said). Hence, your chances of being ‘rented’ and fetching a steep sum were quite high. You protested, fearing the worst. Your father dismissed it summarily. Marriage was the best option for a rapidly blooming motherless child, he reasoned.
Before long, you were ‘taken’. As the bridal party prepared to depart, your anxious eyes searched for your father for one last hug. You spotted him in a corner, hungrily pocketing a thick wad of cash. (A veritable windfall, someone had later mentioned.)
You stepped into your marital home, faintly hoping for a loving welcome – after all, you were family now. Sudhir, your husband, left you at the entrance and staggered off with the other male relatives to enjoy a night of raucous bacchanalian pleasure. An ageing maid ushered you into your new space – a shabby, tumbledown cubicle at the far end of the central courtyard. The plaster of the walls had peeled off in places. The solitary window creaked and heaved but refused to shut. An ugly grid of cobwebs and wires stared at you from around a cracked, hazy, wall-mounted mirror, angry at this unexpected intrusion. The only furniture in the room – a decrepit wooden cupboard and a sagging coir cot — seemed like a metaphor for your new life. You gently shut the door but the clink of bottles and the loud ribaldry outside jarred your senses. Somewhere deep inside, you realised that today was just a teaser of how your future days would probably pan out. The thought made you gag, till you drifted off into a restive slumber around dawn.
Your initiation into sex was nothing like how you had imagined it to be. Sudhir was wild, rough, and he rushed through it, leaving you bruised, disgusted and in pain. But nothing prepared you for the catastrophe that was unleashed on you from the second month onward. Every night a new visitor was sent to your room – Sudhir’s elder and younger brothers, his cousin, a close friend, and even your middle-aged father-in-law! Your tender body became an instrument of gratification for these ruthlessly libidinous men, their calloused hands and stenchy mouths violating every part of your body till you collapsed in a heap on the cot. Any resistance was met with blows and punches. And in between, you had to pleasure Sudhir, too – after all, wasn’t he your rightful husband! Once, when you complained to Sudhir after an extended session of sex, he replied groggily, “But we had paid handsomely for you, didn’t we?”
The women of the household, surprisingly, appeared totally unperturbed by your plight. Tight-lipped, they went about their daily routine with incredible stoicism — no verbal exchanges took place, no smiles were traded. You once cried bitterly to the maid who brought you food every day.
“But that’s how the pratha (tradition) works. You were ‘bought’…the men of the family have a right to your body. We have all gone through this. Your mother-in-law and co-sisters, too. Come now, don’t read too much into it.”
Her stoic acceptance of this heinous practice left you agape. But it also strengthened your resolve to invert your fate and rewrite your own destiny, tradition be damned!
A year passed. While the red and purple welts deepened all over your body, you worked harder on perfecting your escape plan. On Dusshera evening, the entire family proceeded to attend the Ramlila ceremony with the rest of the villagers. You stayed back, citing irregular periods. Around midnight, draping a white saree and hauling a heavy bag over your shoulders, you tiptoed across the courtyard towards the exit, when you suddenly encountered your sozzled brother-in-law entering through the doorway. You had waited long enough for this opportunity and were not ready to give it up easily. Recovering from the initial shock, he tried to pin you down on the ground. You struggled with all your might but were not a patch on this swarthy man. In a last-ditch effort, you reached for the rusted scythe languishing in a corner, among other farm equipment and brought it down heavily on his right thigh, spouting a crimson spray. With an anguished cry, his grip loosened. You scrambled to your feet and ran frantically till you reached the bus stop beyond the fields. The bus to Varanasi arrived shortly. Varanasi, as a place, had always fascinated you, going by the tales you heard within the family, as did the anonymity, enigma and mysticism the town offered.
You pulled your pallu low to cover your face. As the bus hurtled down the uneven roads, you settled down and inhaled the fresh air outside – it smelt of new beginnings!
*****
A series of repeated, urgent knocks on a cloudy June morning, prompted Sumitra Devi to unbolt the door in a hurry. Two grave-looking policemen thrust a monochrome photograph into her hand.
“Have you seen this girl anywhere around? The Indore police are looking for her. We received a tip-off that she might be staying here,” one of them offered, closely scrutinising Sumitra’s face.
As Sumitra glanced at the photo, her jaws tightened almost imperceptibly. But when she shook her head and spoke, her voice betrayed no conflict.
“Daroga Sahab, you know me well. I’m very particular about my tenants’ credentials. But I’ll keep an eye out, anyway. What’s her name?”
“Latika…the bitch almost murdered her brother-in-law and fled with some cash.”
As Sumitra peeked at the photograph before returning it, Ambika’s face stared back at her.
*****
Later that evening, Sumitra Devi and Ambika sat at the farthest corner of Manikarnika Ghat – the holy cremation ground of Varanasi. Before them, the holy river flowed, pregnant with its zen energy. Far away, the cymbals in the temples jangled, accompanied by a robust chanting of hymns. In a linear tone, Latika, or Ambika, narrated the ordeal of her marriage to her landlady – arms wrapped around her, breathing hard and trembling like a frightened child. Sumitra hugged her back spontaneously, the human touch washing away long years of anathema and incrimination rankling in her moribund soul.
At a distance, the tangerine flames of the Ganga Aarti could be seen licking the caliginous skies. The night air carried the scent of funerary ingredients as a couple of pyres blazed nearby. It was a surreal surrounding where divinity and hope walked hand in hand with death and squalor; where fresh connections were birthed from the bedrock of torment. Just like the way it catalysed the joining of two sundered hearts, across the river of time. Sumitra and Ambika sat in silence, imbuing the warmth, comfort and solace of their new-found sisterhood two kindred souls, conjoined by destiny, trying to gain a toehold in this hostile universe.
******
